Patchwork
by Tre Corde
Summary: Patchwork stories of nations and their flags, told in one hundred words or less. Drabble anthology.
1. America

It's 1772, and America has so much to give.

His white pines, perfect and tall, brush green fingers along New Hampshire's coast. The thick ones are marked for the British Crown, marked by cold ink-and-paper law. The little ones are for America, for floorboards made narrow and cities made small.

Sea-worn England sails white-pine ships carved from America's heart, and for two years America wonders why England never trusts him.

Then it's 1775, and America unfurls an appeal to heaven, splashes bright pine on white cloth, and laughs at England's ire.

—:—

America likes to think of himself as a rattlesnake, thirteen joints coiled and snapping. _Join or die_, Ben had said, and a grinning Paul adds that to his paper, a hissing confrontation of American snake and British dragon.

Rattlesnakes don't attack unless provoked. Even then, they give fair warning before the fangs come out. They're heroic like that.

So America tells England, "Don't tread on me," paints it loud and clear on yellow banners of warning, and prays for an understanding that never comes.

He refuses to turn the other cheek, because rattlesnakes never close their eyes.

—:—

Rockets and mortars rain down in Baltimore, trailing smoke and artificial thunder. America shakes stars from his eyes and casts his gaze upwards, searching instead for stars framed in red and blue. He sighs. Over thirty years have passed since the Revolution, and America is tired of fighting with England.

He passes the night trading blind artillery for blind artillery. Neither side incurs much damage, and the next morning dawns quietly. No sound save for the flapping of a star-spangled banner, high and proud.

On the Patapsco River, a relieved Washington lawyer scribbles down the words to a poem.

—:—

She wears ribbons of red and white, striped side by side like boxed pleats of a lady's skirt. Her smile, deep navy ultramarine, unfolds like the night sky.

1861 comes along, and suddenly she has a scowling Confederate brother. In battle, he sheds his bars and slings his stars like bandoliers around vermilion shoulders. He's proud and rebellious, but war does him no favors. He falls. She doesn't.

She is a survivor. A seafarer, adventurer, commander, veteran. Fringes ragged from years of flight. Faded colors. Mismatched stars.

Her name is Old Glory, and America treasures her so.

—:—

Sometimes, America doesn't know what to think about the Southern Cross.

It's a good symbol, some say. Rebellion, freedom, heritage, pride—and, well, folks down in Dixie have always been proud.

But memories of the bloodiest war in his history cling to it like unwelcome perfume. He cringes when he recalls the groups that rally under its shadow. Students with hateful eyes. Pallid ghosts in pointed hats. America, land of the free? Sometimes he feels like choking on his own hypocrisy.

He keeps one in his storage, anyway. If nothing else, he thinks it's important to remember.

—:—

The fifties dawn red.

America grows twitchy and aggressive, eyes locked on crimson footprints tracking their way west. He shudders away from Russia's grabby fingers, away from the nations shaking hands in Warsaw, and watches the world like it's going to end. Cuba smirks at him, and suddenly the red is _right there_, right in his own backyard—_no place is sacred, _not even the sky with its sinister foreign satellite.

At the end of an exhaustive decade, forty-eight becomes fifty, and a new flag rises, white, blue, red.

It's the only red he can stomach.

—:—

Occasionally, he forgets his own brother's birthday.

He doesn't mean to, of course. The first of July is easy to overlook with America's wave of excitement sweeping ever toward the fourth. Canada doesn't complain—has _never_ complained, placid creature that he is—and America doesn't fully realize the weight of his own disregard until 1959.

Their first joint celebration links Windsor and Detroit just as surely as the Ambassador Bridge. Eagle and maple leaf fly side by side under breathtaking arrays of fireworks.

Canada's smile is brighter than all the lights in the sky.

—:—

In one giant leap for mankind, he reaches the moon. Six American flags—five, after he accidentally blows one away—now fly quietly in space. _We come in peace_, they say. He hopes Tony's people are watching.

"You do realize," England tells him haughtily, "that in a few decades, solar radiation will have bleached them completely white."

America blinks and says, "Really? Damn. Now everyone's gonna think _France_ landed on the moon. Or Italy."

Which is a rude thing to say, really. But it teases a smile from perpetually grumpy England, so America figures it's worth it.

—:—

America treks through the jungles of Vietnam, soaking her forests and farmland in a heady, toxic orange. The weight of the war settles merciless and anchorlike in his gut, dragging his steps as he paces feverish grooves around the Iron Triangle.

The cries from back home are growing louder. A minority, but a vocal one.

(_Hey, hey, LBJ—_)

Vietnam—bleeding, grime-covered, split down the middle—looks at him with increasingly cold eyes. He doesn't meet her gaze. He's trying to remember.

(—_how many kids did you kill today?_)

Thousands of miles away, voices swell and flags burn.

—:—

He sees it all:

A skyline choked in smoke. Two towers wreathed in fire and dust, tumbling down, down, down. The confusion. The desperation. The terror.

The people.

Firefighters, police officers, agents, medics, workers, chefs, _people_. People helping people. People running back for those who cannot. People searching rubble for survivors. People volunteering, and raising funds, and offering support, and ten thousand acts of kindness that are so, so insignificant and yet somehow mean _everything_.

The flag survives.

America clutches at it, breathes in its scent of solidarity and quiet heroism, and thinks—_yes_—

—this is me, _this is me_.


	2. Australia

His earliest memories are shrouded in timeless black.

There—under the waxing shadows of the moon-man, he watches creatures drift across the sky. A possum, twinkling merrily at him from its branch. A proud-necked emu, the only one he knows of that can fly. And more, and more.

They pull soft fingers at his memories, but never speak, even though they are old and great and must have many exciting stories to tell. When the sun-woman returns to light her daily fire, they smile and vanish.

He smiles back.

He will see them again someday, in Dreamtime.

—:—

He's only a boy when the white sails appear, cradled over the horizon.

The first man who descends to shore wears a tired face, worn around the edges like weathered stone. More men follow, and he is suddenly uneasy—these have a desperate look to them, like a pack of starving dingoes. After planting a flag crisscrossed with red-white-blue, the first man looks up and finally notices him dangling in a tree, watching them.

Then, introductions. The stranger's name is England. His becomes "New South Wales."

He thinks England looks a bit sad, and wonders why.

—:—

"Australasia," he tries.

"That sounds like a _disease_," New Zealand says, anxious.

"Hmm…"

Flag-designing is harder than it looks, and Australia is no great artist. After some puzzled experimentation, he consults an image he'd long since burned into the back of his eyelids, and begins to rearrange stripes and crosses into familiar shapes. New Zealand hovers over his shoulder, wondering out loud if maybe they were being too forward, too demanding, they didn't want trouble after all—surely England would be displeased?

But Australia doesn't mind trouble. He's just a little tired of hungry dingoes.

—:—

Gold fever strikes him fast and dizzy, and Australia goes from obscurity to center stage in an instant. "California," Poland remarks, "is _so_ last year."

While China and England are busy snarling at each other (something about opium?), Australia charges toward his goldfields. Digging is hard, expensive work. He becomes distracted and impatient; suddenly, England's taxes and licenses feel looming, oppressive.

A riot breaks out.

Behind a stockade, Australia flies the Southern Cross, crying eureka. He shouts something—_taxation without representation_—and England goes very still, staring at Australia like he's a remnant of some ill-forgotten memory.

—:—

The dawn of the twentieth century brings hopeful things, and in 1901 Australia has his own flag. A _real_ flag, not a rebel sign (though it does resemble his anti-transportation one from fifty years ago).

He strings it high over Melbourne, and watches it flutter. On the left, the Union Jack and the Commonwealth Star. On the right, five stars of an old friend, of a possum-in-the-sky. He grows fond of it, and it slowly begins to replace the ones Britain left behind.

This is the flag he'll die to save, the radiant Southern Cross.

—:—

World War One.

Anzac Cove, Gallipoli.

The weather is atrocious. Summer cracks them red and burnt. Winter chokes their skin, snaps their limbs. What is supposed to be a glorious strike drags for months and months. Australia can't even bring himself to hate Turkey, because the Ottomans have their own flag to save, and Australia has his, and everything just seems so bloody pointless.

New Zealand tugs his arm, pale, determined—a warrior's face. _He shouldn't have to look like a warrior_, Australia thinks, even as he nods.

They clasp hands briefly. Together, they reenter the fray.

—:—

In Villers-Bretonneux, the Australian flag flies.

Close your eyes, inhale. Can you feel the memory here, thick, like a dream?

Remember the first Great War, Germany spraying everything with shellfire, the town falling to siege in three days. Remember the panic, the ruin, the cries, for _all is lost, surely._

Now, recall Australia (reckless, stupid, _marvelous_ Australia) ignoring England's orders, throwing himself past the crosshairs of German artillery. Pushing the tide. Retaking the town. Rebuilding the school.

France opens his eyes and smiles at the blackboard. In chalk, he writes: _N'oublions jamais l'Australie_.

Never forget Australia.

—:—

America and Russia's tense war-but-not-really is making everyone nervous. Australia still remembers Japan, and WW2, and he doesn't fancy an apocalyptic firestorm anytime soon, so he goes to Korea to help out. The last thing he expects to find is an old enemy, whose silhouette he recalls seeing at the cliffs of Gallipoli.

Turkey.

For a while, they eye one another in silence.

Then, unexpectedly, Turkey offers a crooked smile and a hand to shake. Australia stares at him in wonderment, before bursting into startled laughter and accepting the handshake with a grin twofold large.

—:—

Black for the people. Red for the earth. Yellow for sun, for life and new birth.

Sometimes there would be a rainbow in the sky, arching past clouds like a great serpent. And, sometimes of sometimes, Australia would tear his gaze from the Rainbow Snake to study another creature of the air, a creature with different colors, different scales. The Aboriginal Flag is a single golden disk overlaid over black and red halves, born from some memory between waking and dreaming. He watches with a mixture of pride and guilt, and he wishes he had been just a bit kinder.

—:—

For New Zealand and Australia, the topic of changing flags is a recurring debate. They both fuss over it on occasion, New Zealand more so than Australia—"Everyone always mistakes me for _you_," Kiwi complains—and every now and then, maybe New Zealand draws up some wiggly fern thing, and maybe Australia goes wild with kangaroo motifs, but in the end, nothing really comes of it.

Because it's history, right? A history of wars and pledges, faith and hardship, beginnings and endings…

Australia thinks he'd like to hold onto that history, if only for a little while longer.


	3. Austria

For all that Austria was born to fight, sometimes he just isn't very good at it.

This time around, he wakes to the cool touch of a washcloth and a familiar stream of angry muttering. Switzerland is scolding him again, harsh words at odds with his gentle ministrations.

Sleepily, Austria considers the prospect of becoming stronger. He thinks that he wouldn't mind working harder, if it were for Switzerland's sake…

He voices this thought, and smiles when Switzerland freezes mid-rant to turn bright cherry red.

Such a pretty color, red. Austria decides he quite likes it.

—:—

War takes Europe like a fever dream, and Austria joins his fellow child-crusaders as they sweep into Acre, trumpets in their ears and angels in their eyes. He fights until he is _red_, red in mind-heart-body, sanguine drumbeats in his veins, hair flecked crimson. France and England stand with him when the city falls, and all three step forward to raise high their banners.

Later, Austria removes the belt from his dark red surcoat, and is surprised to find a stripe of untouched cloth beneath it. He'd almost forgotten that his coat used to be white.

—:—

Red is strength and glory and everything Austria has promised himself to be. Power demands autonomy, so he moves away from the forested cradle that is his childhood, away from his best friend of—years, decades, centuries?—and the distance helps him harden his heart. He learns to be cold, warlike, belligerent—like his new coat of arms, striped red in defiance to Holy Rome.

He still remembers the chill of Switzerland's glare, the frozen moment when Austria realizes he's plunged past the point of forgiveness. But it doesn't bother him as much as it used to.

—:—

Hungary is a _wild_ man, fierce and brutal, a tempest personified. It seems he will always be the bane of Austria's existence.

"Nice place," Hungary says as he surveys the wreckage of a city—_his_ city, his heart, his Vienna—oh, it is all Austria can do not to snap at him. But Austria is _better_, more controlled and more civilized than this beast of a nation can ever be, so he says nothing when Hungary smirks and hoists his flag high above Austria's. A show of dominance.

For now. Austria vows it will not be for long.

—:—

The Habsburgs are shrewd with their calculated tangle of matchmaking, and from this Austria learns a new form of warfare. With Hungary's king dead, Austria is free to plot and scheme, and he finds that he is terribly good at plotting and scheming. Heaven knows why he bothered with fighting in the first place. Marriage is clean, elegant, _effective_. Holy Rome, the Low Countries, Burgundy, Spain…

All his without a drop of spilt blood.

And Frederick III—strange, distant, patient Frederick—gifts secret words upon him, like a signature, like a song:

_All the world is subject to Austria._

—:—

Hungary is a woman.

Whatever it was Austria had expected in the wake of the Ottoman wars, this wasn't it.

She joins him under Habsburg blacks and yellows, all vague smiles, hands folded primly against a dress ruffled with soft-spoken colors. It is all Austria can do not to stare; this demure impostor _cannot_ be the same nightmarish entity who plagued his childhood. It is _dissonant_. It doesn't _fit_.

(When Austria later discovers sweet, dewy-eyed Italy to be male, he has to wonder if his entire life is going to be one long streak of crossdressers.)

—:—

Nineteenth century. Holy Rome vanishes. Italy leaves. Prussia struts away, hand in hand with a solemn boy named Germany; Austria is left behind to tend his bruised pride. Of everyone, Hungary stays.

They marry in 1869. Austria finds a piano and lets Romantic-era music say everything he cannot express.

"You're less cold like this," Hungary says, and then murmurs, piercingly: "That bad, huh?"

A fermata. "I could say the same for you."

Her expression becomes carefully amused. "Oh, we _are_ pitiful fools, aren't we?"

Austria replies with a gentle transition to Liszt. Hungary, smiling, listens in silence.

—:—

In his hubris, Austria forgets two crucial things.

One: for all that Austria was born to fight, sometimes he just isn't very good at it.

Two: he can plot and weave alliances to his heart's content. But so too can the enemy.

In Sarajevo, Austria watches his flag, _their_ flag, their marriage of red and green. He wonders if Hungary can feel it, too—the beginning of an end—as a bullet born of nationalism rips into Ferdinand's throat, and spider-silk connections flare into motion across Europe.

They are all flies in this web of war.

—:—

Here come the staccato footsteps of incoming German troops. This is the _Anschluss_. This is a promise broken.

Austria could protest, but he remembers what happened to Spain, and does not want Vienna to become another Guernica. So he says nothing, welcomes Germany into his home like a long-lost brother, and when the plebiscite comes, he plays along with the Führer's twisted illusion of democracy. Austria is good at killing his heart, and his hand barely trembles as he writes "_Ja_" over and over again.

He forfeits his name, becomes _Ostmark_, and silently lines his cities with swastikas.

—:—

Austria isn't always good at fighting, but these days, he doesn't need to be.

"I'm neutral now," he says to Switzerland in 1955.

"Welcome to the club," Switzerland says flatly, and Austria almost smiles.

The swastikas are gone. His flag is once more his own, two stripes of red—

(_the color of a crusader's surcoat, of the wars he has sworn to forsake_)

—and a central band of white.

(_The color of ivory piano keys, of moonlit melodies Hungary loved to fall asleep to, of edelweiss on snowy mountaintops_.)

It is a good color, for peace.


End file.
